The lobby of the George V was eerily deserted, a ballroom after the ball, the fragrance from the enormous spray of flowers intoxicating in the still air. A hotelier rose from behind the reception, offering Simon a discreet nod as they entered.
“I don’t suppose it’s a coincidence you’re staying here,” Nikki said as they headed to the elevator.
Simon regarded her without answering.
They rode to the fourth floor, neither speaking. Nikki stood next to him, closer than he would have liked. Her shoulder touched his and he guarded against the flurry of intimacy it roused. It had been an eventful night. Too much adrenaline. Too much pain. Too many heightened emotions. He warned himself that his attraction was merely the aftereffect of a shared danger.
He glanced at her and found her eyes closed. He noted that she had smooth, flawless skin. Her upper lip was full and he studied its boundary, the sharp border where pink turned to cream. Despite himself, he couldn’t look away. He was counting her lashes, laughing at the adolescent streak of blue in her hair. He had an urge to put his arm around her, draw her toward him. He wanted very badly to kiss her.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. Nikki jolted, eyes fluttering open, and he realized she’d been asleep on her feet.
“Here we are,” he said. “Four twenty-one. To the right.”
He led the way to his room, feeling more tired with each step. He put the keycard in the door, waited for the lock to disengage, and pushed it open with his shoulder. “Come in.”
Nikki slid past him into the room. “So this is how the other half lives.”
“Expense account.”
“Nice client,” she said.
“Deep pockets.”
She turned to look at him. “We’ll come to that.”
The bed was turned down from the night before. She took the chocolate truffle off the pillow and popped it into her mouth, then toured the room, taking off her leather jacket and tossing it onto a chair. She stopped at the window and peeled back the velvet drapes. “Morning already,” she said.
Simon looked at her thinking she suddenly looked soft and vulnerable. He fought back his desire. “Time to go to work.”
He placed the StingRay monitor on the desk, inserted a power cord, then attached a USB cable to his laptop. “It takes a minute,” he said, “for the program to open and transfer the data.”
“Give you time to tell me what’s what.”
“I’ll let you start. You’re the detective.”
“Always playing a game, aren’t you?” Nikki was kneeling by the minibar. “Want anything?”
“Orange juice.”
She grabbed a bottle for him and two minis of Grey Goose. She cracked the orange juice and handed him the bottle before pouring the vodka into a highball glass.
“Little early for a drink,” he said.
“Nightcap,” she said, downing the contents.
“Now who’s playing the game?”
Nikki made a coy face and put down the glass. “All right, then, Mr. Riske. Here’s what I think. You come waltzing into Paris the day after the most publicized robbery in ten years, claiming to be after a secret letter with magical powers. You waste my time asking about three criminals when, in fact, you’re only interested in one, Tino Coluzzi, a childhood friend, no less, who only last week was getting a crew together. Now it turns out you’re staying at the same hotel as the man who was robbed, Prince Abdul Aziz bin Saud. Finally, you’re based out of London, which as far as I know is second home to half the Middle East.” She’d recited her argument matter-of-factly and without rancor, her eyes never leaving him. “So what do I think? I think Prince Abdul Aziz hired you to get his money back and you believe Tino Coluzzi has it.”
Simon turned his chair so it faced her. “Not bad. I’d have come to the same conclusion.”
“But?”
“You’re mistaken.”
“Stop lying. There is no letter. You’re here for the money. Fess up.”
“Okay,” said Simon, admiring her restraint, knowing he’d be going through the roof if someone had yanked his chain as badly as he’d yanked hers. “Enough bullshit. You saved my life. You earned the truth. But it stays between you and me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You don’t tell Marc Dumont.”
“But he has to—”
“Hear me out.” Simon stood, hands lifted in conciliation. “I am here about the robbery, and, yes, that’s why I’m staying at the hotel. I needed to see how things work around here. But I’m not here for the money. I don’t work for Prince Abdul Aziz. There really is a letter. I can only tell you the rest if you promise not to go to your bosses.”
“I can’t do that. Just because I broke some of the rules doesn’t mean I’m disloyal or a bad cop.”
“I’m not asking you to be disloyal and I think you’re a great cop. I’m asking you to be patient.”
Nikki sat down on the bed. “I’m listening.”
“Tino Coluzzi is the man you’re after. The man everyone is after. He’s the one who hijacked the prince’s motorcade.”
“How do you know that?”
Simon sat down beside her. “It’s like this,” he said, and for ten minutes gave her the identical briefing Neill had given him two days before, leaving nothing out. “So that’s it. Neill believes that Coluzzi found the letter, realized its significance, and is sitting on it until he can decide how to use it. It’s my job to get it back before he does.”
“Must be some letter.”
“Must be.”
Nikki considered this. She reclined on the bed, resting on an elbow. “What about you? How did you ever join La Brise when you were just eighteen? Are you American or are you French? And what the hell happened to you? I can’t tell if you got hit by a hand grenade, fell into a tree shredder, or took a swim with a school of piranhas.”
Simon shifted, looking at her directly. “I’m American. My parents divorced early. When my father died, I was sent to live with my mother in Marseille. I wasn’t a welcome addition. I made my way on the streets. I jacked cars for a few years, then moved up the ladder to taking down banks and armored cars. Coluzzi was part of my crew. I did not fall into a tree shredder or swim with a bunch of piranhas. I got caught. I took a couple of bullets because I was too high and too dumb to give up. I did four years in Les Baumettes. And this scar up here, the one you were asking about”—Simon touched his forehead, feeling his blood boil, his vision narrow—“courtesy of Tino Coluzzi.”
Simon drew a breath, shutting out the memories, letting the fury go. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get worked up.”
“It’s okay.” Nikki put her hand on his arm, rubbing it soothingly. She pointed to the laptop. “That thing done yet?”
“Still downloading.”
“Your expense account cover breakfast?”
“Go ahead. Order me oatmeal with sliced bananas and another orange juice.”
“Freshly squeezed, I imagine.”
“Better be for what they’re charging.”
Nikki called room service as Simon studied the monitor. The StingRay was programmed to extract a maximum amount of information from the intercepted calls: the caller’s and responder’s names, addresses, and other personal information associated with the handset, as well as everything stored on each phone’s SIM card—emails, texts, apps, photos, and, finally, a list of the phone’s GPS locations at the time the past thousand calls were made or received.
“What time did you get to the bar last night?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I watched you go in at ten thirty. You came out with your buddies after midnight.”
“You were there at ten thirty?”
“Surprised you didn’t spot me?” she asked with more than a hint of pride.
“Embarrassed. I try to keep a sharp eye.”
Simon turned back to the laptop. According to the StingRay, six calls had been placed between midnight and three from within twenty meters of the bar. Nikki pulled up a chair in order to look. A list of phone numbers belonging to callers along with the handset owners’ names filled one box. The same information for the numbers they called filled an adjacent box.
Simon scrolled down the first list. “Got it,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Twelve sixteen. Outgoing call from a handset registered to Luca J. Falconi to an unregistered phone lasting two minutes.”
“You think it’s Coluzzi?”
“I don’t think he was calling his mother.” Simon plugged the GPS coordinates of the recipient’s phone into Google Maps. A circle the size of a pencil eraser appeared near the city of Marseille. “Darn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Whoever Falconi was calling was using a burner.”
“How can you tell?”
“The handset only gives its location to within ten kilometers. Typical of cheap throwaways. The better the chip, the more accurate it is. Even so, that’s him. That’s Coluzzi.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s where we grew up,” said Simon. “He’s gone home to hide out.”
“Can we listen to the call?”
“Depends. If you don’t set it to pick up a specific number, the StingRay only records three calls at a time. Falconi’s was the fifth call it picked up. If it was still recording the others, we’re out of luck.”
Nikki scooted closer to the desk, closer to Simon, her eyes glued to the computer.
He double-clicked on Falconi’s number. All information pertaining to his handset appeared: date of manufacture and last software update, along with his name, home address, credit card number, and more.
“Well?” she asked.
Simon pointed to an icon of a musical quarter note in the final column next to Falconi’s number. The note meant the call had been recorded. “We got him.”
He hit PLAY. Nikki reached over and paused the recording before it began.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“This is an invasion of Luca Falconi’s privacy. No warrant from a judge. We haven’t even opened up a case against him.”
“He tried to kill me. Isn’t that good enough?”
“No. It’s not,” she said, then after further consideration: “None of this is admissible in a court of law, anyway.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“We’re the good guys, right?”
“Last I looked.”
Nikki shrugged. “Screw him. He doesn’t deserve to have his rights respected.”
Simon hit PLAY.
“Yeah, Luca,” said Tino Coluzzi. “What is it?”
“Something’s up. A guy’s in here asking about you.”
“Recognize him?” asked Coluzzi.
“Never seen him before, but he says he knows you.”
It was Coluzzi after all these years. The smooth, assured voice, the clip to his accent. The words unleashed an avalanche of memories, none good. They listened without comment.
“Know him?” said Tino Coluzzi. “I killed him.”
“Well, whoever this Simon Ledoux is, he’s alive. What do you want me to do about it?”
“Finish it.”
The call ended.
“So this isn’t just about the letter,” said Nikki. “I mean, why you’re here.”
“No. It isn’t.” Simon went back to studying the call log. “Doesn’t look like Falconi placed any other calls.”
“Anyone else call him after the fight?”
“Lots, but I don’t recognize any names. Nothing to Marseille. Hold it.”
“What?”
An interesting number caught his eye. A country code he recognized but could find no reason for it being there: 7 for Russia; 495 for Moscow. “Someone called Moscow at twelve fifteen.”
“From the bar?”
“Yeah.”
“Who does the phone belong to?”
“No name. No billing address. All registration information is a blank. All I can say is that Russphon is the service provider.”
Nikki bit her lip. It was odd, if not impossible, for a phone to be issued without some data about its owner. “Who did they call?”
Simon double-clicked on the number. “Nothing there either. All we know is that both phones come from Moscow.” He checked the respondent’s GPS on Google Maps. The coordinates corresponded to a place in the southwestern suburbs of the Russian capital. “Some place called Yasenevo.”
“Can we listen?”
Simon spotted the quarter note, indicating that a recording of the call had been made. “StingRay nabbed that one, too.” He hit PLAY. A high-pitched screeching tone shot from the computer. He stopped the recording.
“What was that?” asked Nikki.
“The phone is encrypted. Whoever it belongs to made sure no one could listen in.”
“Is that uncommon?”
“Depends on who the phone belongs to.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not uncommon if you’re a spy.”
“Is that who else wants the letter?”
Simon recalled telling Neill his belief that the other side—regardless of who they were—would be coming for the letter, too. He input the Russian caller’s number into StingRay, requesting a log of calls the phone had made in the last twenty-four hours. He was not prepared for what appeared next.
“Whoever called Moscow from Le Galleon Rouge placed another call to the same number ten minutes ago.” His eyes danced across the screen. “Oh no,” he said.
“What is it?”
Simon pointed to the column indicating the location of the caller. “This call was made from Luca Falconi’s home.”